Excerpt of Fan the Flames by Michele Dunaway

The alarm beeped once, indicating it was already turned
off.

She frowned, then relaxed as she saw Brad’s coat tossed
over one of the chairs surrounding the island. He must be
upstairs working on the third floor. She hung her coat on
the peg rack he’d installed and set her purse on the
counter. She ascended the back stairs, and because she
assumed he was one more floor up, paid little attention
to where she was going. With a thump, she ran straight
into him as he was exiting the hall bathroom.

“Oh.” She stepped backward, and Brad’s hands reached out
and steadied her before she lost her footing and fell
backward down the stairs.

“Careful.” He swung her around so she was fully in the
hall. A shockwave powered through her. He leaned down and
studied her, brown eyes concerned. “You okay?”

She gulped, but no words came out. Brad wore nothing but
a white towel slung low over his hips, and it gaped above
the knee, giving her a good glimpse of rock-hard thigh.
She swallowed as her gaze traced the line of dark hair
that made a path from his navel to the towel. A drop of
water fell from his tussled hair and slid down his right
pectoral. His abs went beyond six-pack. Another clear
droplet fell. He’d been in the shower. Gone was the sexy
stubble—his clean-shaven face smelled of cypress and
eucalyptus.

She brought her gaze back to a face that was watching her
intently. “You okay?” he asked again.

“I . . . I . . .” Her mouth dried. She felt fire. She
wanted to lick the water from his chest, taste the salt
of his skin. Follow that thin little scar over his heart.
As if it had a mind of its own, her hand moved to that
spot. Touched. Traced. A tremble went through him and his
breath hissed. His hand covered hers and drew hers away.
“Stop.”

“What? Does it hurt?”

His eyes darkened. “No. It’s long healed. But you can’t
touch me like that. I can’t hold it together if you do.”

“Oh.” She absorbed the implications. It was hard to
concentrate. His hand held hers. Seeing him wearing
nothing but a quick-dry towel fried her equilibrium. His
free hand gripped the towel, which tented in front. She
wanted that white cloth to fall to the floor, expose what
was beneath. Every one of her pores longed for more of
his touch. Heat built. Was she wet? Holy hell. She fought
for control.

She felt a bit light-headed. Weak at the knees. He must
have sensed that, because he immediately let her hand go
and snaked that arm around her waist, steadying her. Her
hands pressed up against that rock-solid chest. Her legs
intertwined with his; she could feel his erection. Her
eyes dilated. Oh God. This desire was different from any
she’d experienced. The overwhelming urge to have him
inside her roared, filling her with pure need.

“You look woozy. Are you getting sick?”

“No.” Not unless every one of her dormant hormones
powering back to life counted. Her knees buckled.